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“Circe, stop birdwatching and focus on our target.”

“Stop watching me through your scope and do your job, Artemis .”

“That guy does have a nice ass, I’ll admit.”

“Shut it,” I grumble, pretending to be more annoyed than I am.

“You’re so cute, but you get so ugly when you’re defensive. This is why you do not have a boyfriend.”

“Right. Or it could be the fact that I am an assassin, trained from birth to kill for money. Try putting that in your Tinder profile.”

“It actually works better than you think. They all think I’m mysterious .”

“It’s no mystery. You’re a slut, Arty,” I snort, loosening up my neck and wiggling against the blanket I laid out on the concrete of the abandoned building’s top floor.

“You’re such a downer. And rude to boot. Can we at least go out after this?”

“One drink.” I shift my weight, flex my fingers. Calm. Relaxed. The only way to do my job effectively.

“Wow. Way to let loose, cuz.”

“Completing missions is enough of a high for me.”

“There’s something wrong with you, then.”

“Fine. We’ll go to that club you like, and I’ll play arm candy to a scruffy shitbag sidekick while you take home the jock who pretends not to be intimidated by your height.”

“When you put it that way…I’m in.” Artemis snickers, the radio clicking off.

I am ready. Always.

My job has always been my life. It’s the thrill of execution, in more ways than one.

Research. Set up. Stake out. Take out. And vanish.

The waiting would make most people insane. For me, it’s cathartic. Meditative.

Never to be confused for casual or careless. This job is literally life and death. Held in my hands.

I take it more seriously than anything. And I do not let it get to my head. I am not a goddess. Just a tool used to shape the world.

The lives we Lyras take are carefully chosen, contracts scrutinized and meticulously vetted. We work as an entity for change. Money is just a necessity to see our means to an end.

That’s what my Papa and Mama taught me, growing up on the small island in the Mediterranean that we called home. Our way of life is a necessity for the world, to maintain balance among the powerful, the elite, and the less than moral families working in the shadows.

Not to say we are some moral authority.

The council of each branch head of our family meets to keep one another in check.

No unit chooses its own jobs. Every family trades children as tribute to balance loyalty and to curb single-minded, religious- type obsession or the risk of one group becoming overly powerful.

Which is exactly what used to happen centuries ago. According to our family history, anyway. There’s always bogeyman stories to keep the kids in line.

Now, things are professional. Clinical. Somewhat political.

But I do not care a whiff about any of that.

I only care about my record. My reputation. And about securing a future for myself free of any control. The only way to do that is to be perfect. To become the head of my branch and pass my title on to another and disappear.

Shaking my head slightly, I refocus on the task at hand. My body protests my position, but I take a breath and center myself. Twelve hours without moving will make anyone a bit stiff.

That’s just what must be done to ensure I do not miss my chance.

My eyes twitch to my watch. Two p.m.

The target should be returning to their hotel room any moment.

“Circe.”

“Yeah?”

“She’s on her way up. Please get it done this time.”

“No promises,” I murmur, settling the stock of the rifle against my shoulder firmly.

“I hate you.”

“You’ll love me when we get a bonus for gathering additional intel about the ’Ndrangheta.”

My people have been trying to find out more about the elusive and mythical Italian organization for years.

All we know so far is that they’re comprised of the wealthiest and most elite members of the criminal underworld.

They have massive reach and control. We finally discovered one member: a woman whose family owns half the exports in and out of the Mediterranean. And someone hired us to kill her.

“Boring. You could have shot her the past three times she was in her room.”

“Hush, The past three times weren’t right.” Collateral. No good line of sight. It has to be perfect.

“You and your gut feelings. I’m on point for our next job.”

“No you’re not. You take too many risks.”

“Fuck you. I’m the better shot.”

“Which is why you are in the backup position and on watch in case I fuck this up.”

“You never do,” Arty grumbles and I hear her spit to the side.

“Gross. Your compliments sound like insults.”

“Your tone of voice is always an insult.”

“Mama said I have the voice of an angel. It’s your attitude that’s insulting.”

“Coming from the woman with the ultimate resting bitch face…Mark,” she snaps and we both quiet. The door to the hotel room eases open.

She’s mid-forties, maybe early fifties. Regal.

Tall. Beautiful in a bold, statuesque sort of way.

Especially the way she stands, walks. Her shoulders thrust back, her chin high and steady.

She is confident, powerful. I admire a woman in authority.

Especially one who dresses as strikingly as my target does.

She’s let the hint of silver at her temples remain, not bothering to dye the gray.

You go, queen.

Flaunt your experience. Own your style.

Even if you’ll only be around for a few more minutes. She slips off her coat, tossing it over the back of the sofa. Steps up to the window.

Security guards shift behind her, sweeping the suite. They’ll finish up and leave quickly. I don’t let them distract me.

Oo! I like that dress. Perfect for a funeral. Too bad she won’t be having an open casket.

Deadly silence sweeps through my thoughts, muting the inner dialog. My eyelid flinches, the lashes tickling against the scope of my sniper rifle.

My finger grazes the trigger.

All I see is her forehead. Right between her eyebrows.

I inhale. My vision narrows.

“Clear,” Arty’s whisper caresses my ear. She knows when I am about to take the shot. Knows not to interrupt. But we have protocol.

And I need to know the room is empty. The time between the shot and her security mobilizing in the ensuing chaos will cover our escape.

Breathe in. Slide my finger into the trigger guard. In five, hold. Out five, hold. Inhale…

The whole world holds its breath with me. Deadly quiet.

I’m in that buzzing flow state, my thoughts fluid, drifting around my singular, perfect focus. Until?—

A shot rings out across the city a split second before I take my shot, breaking my concentration. I’m already committed. My finger squeezes. Glass shatters.

My target … is gone .

A face glances out at me to the left, hiding behind the wall divide between the hotel windows. Fuck.

“Cirs…we’ve been made—!” Artemis’s voice cuts out. I can’t tell if it was static or a scream.

Irrelevant.

My body is moving before I can think. The gun goes down the laundry shoot.

My jacket, my gloves, shoved in a pack, tossed through the unfinished hallway window, across the alley behind the building, into a dumpster.

The roof door slams back as I bolt toward the north corner, slipping into another coat, tying up my hair.

In seconds I’m halfway to being someone else.

Then I’m leaping across the gap onto another rooftop, through the stairwell door.

Glasses. A mustache.

By the time I hit the street, breezing past the front desk of the neighboring apartment building, I’m unrecognizable. My posture slouches into a completely different stride, my arms tucked against my sides.

“Sir?” The doorman calls after me.

“Huh?” I glance over my shoulder.

“You dropped zis.” His hand reaches forward, a wallet in his fingers.

But my instincts are impeccable. Flawless.

I know his other hand is reaching for a gun.

Darting to the side, my boot flicks up, crushing the fingers on his outstretched hand. The wallet soars through the air, a glimmer of gold reflecting the light through the window.

Cop. Cop. Cop!

The pain and shock of the injury sends my would-be attacker reeling back and to the side. It buys me all the time I need to slip out the door.

I’m a block away at a dead run before I hear shouts behind me.

Cops. How are there already fucking cops?

More importantly …

“Art? Artemis!” No response. I check my backup phone. Nothing.

Five minutes and thirty twists and turns through the streets of Berlin take me back around the spot where my partner, best friend, cousin, and overall pain in my ass should have been moments ago. A glance across the alley tells me she’s likely gone to our backup rendezvous.

The only problem is…

Three guys burst out of the door across from me, scanning the alley, spotting me.

Good thing I’m a rabbit when it comes to running. I’m off at a full sprint before they can even react. My mind stays in that sweet slow state, keeping me from panicking, keeping me from worrying and making a mistake.

Task at hand. Get to the meetup, if things don’t go to plan, follow the backup plan.

Except that every step I take feels like I’m being watched.

Like someone knows every move I’m making and is one step ahead of me.

A car cuts me off, I break left. Two women stand up at the cafe on the corner to intercept me, I spin, losing myself in the small crowd of tourists out in front of the Berlin Cathedral.

Through the press, I snatch a hat, glasses from a purse, drop my coat across a bench, slip into a running jacket I dragged out of a satchel.

When I leave the group, I’m walking calm and casual, my shoulders pulled higher, my stride a swagger, hands thrust into my pockets. Just some guy on some sidewalk.

In minutes, I’m at the newsstand. Despite my concentration, I have to carefully control my urge to swivel my head and look around, trying to find any sign of Artemis.